


Stalemate

by illegible



Series: In Surrender [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst, Foe Yay, Get ready for a Lahabreakdown y'all, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Illness, Self-Harm, Smut, Unnamed Warrior of Light - Freeform, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-01-06 02:14:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21218873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illegible/pseuds/illegible
Summary: Lahabrea comes to antagonize the Warrior of Light after Haurchefant's death. The dark knight is presented with a perfect outlet.





	1. Chapter 1

Nights in Ishgard are cold, have been since the Seventh Umbral Calamity so disrupted this realm’s aether. Breath steams in air that tastes ever-so-faintly of smoke, hearths lit against eternal winter.

A man takes his room in _The Forgotten Knight_, silent and withdrawn despite surrounding conversation. This is not where he is expected, and had he given notice his choice would assuredly have been challenged. House Fortemps is a home away from home, offering refuge even as his chosen Crystal Braves howl for blood. So had Haurchefant insisted, with a wide smile and open arms.

Dead, now. And with his family in mourning, unwilling even to _resent_ him for their sacrifice… the Warrior of Light withdraws. Let them grieve in privacy, free of the leech who stole their kin.

Here, in his own quarters, the other guests are muffled. The mead he’d been given was too sweet for his tastes and it lingers. Sticks against his teeth. A faint hiss from the fireplace reminds him of time’s passage, of life continuing as if Aymeric de Borel had not been beaten and tortured under his father’s direction. As if the Archbishop had not betrayed his own people, his own faith, with open eyes. As if Haurchefant Greystone still lived and laughed and gave his unwavering confidence to one who had not earned it.

The greatsword rests propped near the entrance. His armor remains. Cleaned since the day’s events out of respect for his hosts, but not yet removed.

He’s allowed himself to get drunk, if only just, at Fray’s advice. The wraith had met his approach with crossed arms and a patient stare. Before he’d so much as opened his mouth, the dark knight informed him “I heard of your loss. We’ll make them pay, but not tonight. You’ll not slay them as you are, weary and worn. So take this time as your own. Drink, kill, fuck, it matters not. But on the morrow rest assured _we will find them_.”

It shouldn’t have made him feel better, but it did.

He might have requested any number of men or women for comfort. He refrained. Any partner he sought was sure to remember, even if he did not, and he had no desire to make a spectacle of himself. Nothing that would have caused the Silver Fuller shame or alarm.

His solitude ends somewhere after a bell, in a bloom of shadow that is all too familiar.

The Warrior has not seen Lahabrea since felling him before Hydaelyn, liberating Thancred at the Praetorium. That he proves so unmarked by the exercise is unsurprising. The red mask, with its permanent scowl and its twin points (fangs or mandibles, equally vile), perches above lips pressed thin. Chapped, he notices now. A strange detail he can’t recall with consistency. Gilded spines rise at either shoulder, giving larger impressions to a man of average build at best. Black from cowl to boots, clawed gloves still at either side.

His blade is on the opposite wall. Lahabrea has positioned himself, perhaps deliberately, between his foe and the weapon he wields.

The Ascian's expression twists into a sneer, exposing teeth. “So at last you know what it feels like, eikon-slayer.”

The Warrior is on his feet, knees bent, stance wide. Low center of gravity, gauntlets drawn to fists. No pugilist he, but the metal is sharp. Mayhap his lack of expertise will catch the immortal off-guard.

“I’d heard you survived,” he says bitterly. “I ought have anticipated a creature like you would show your face now, of all times.”

Lahabrea laughs, harsh and loud and barely high at the edges. It drags his head back, exposes the roof of his mouth. Doesn’t stop when the Warrior lunges, takes the front of his robes in his fists. Shoves him back against the wall of his room.

“Did you come here,” growls Hydaelyn’s chosen, knuckles white, eyes the color of scabs fixed on his adversary, “to amuse yourself at my loss?” Lahabrea, tittering, raises a hand beside the elbow which holds him pinned. A vague gesture, gripping nothing. It is only when he is slammed against the plaster again that he quiets, head bobbing slightly against the force.

“If that is what you would believe” says the Ascian, “why should I stop you?” He grins, jaw tight. It is an expression more familiar to Nabriales than the figure before him but no less insufferable for that.

The Warrior bares his teeth, snarling as he slams his head against the red brow. He hears, barely, a catch of breath against the resounding crack. Back of the skull will have received most force, his own forehead barely stinging at the blow. The mask has been knocked askew rather than off, and in Lahabrea’s surprise the Warrior tears it from him altogether—landing with a clatter on the floor.

He knows not what he’d expected.

Lahabrea appears to be only a man. Irises pale green, cheeks hollow, eyes bruised. Sandy hair, edged in gray, clings in places against his forehead.

Dazed, perhaps even stunned.

Rejecting his own confusion, the Warrior forces his mouth into reflection. A sneer to parody the one he’d received. “_Your_ face, or just another you’ve stolen?”

Lahabrea meets his gaze, and it strikes the Warrior that there is a vacant quality to his scrutiny. It does not match the smile retaking his features.

“As if I’ve had an opportunity to take my own form in eons,” he says, condescending in spite of shoulders hanging limp. “Does it matter?”

Scowling, it occurs to the Warrior that the Ascian has done naught to stay his hand.

“What do you aim to accomplish in coming here?” he demands, fingers curling tighter. “I have no patience for your kind tonight. Stay and I will make you _wish_ you were not immortal.”

It’s as if he’s cut through a taut thread. What traces of mirth remained in the man fade, leaving an expression empty as his eyes. Lahabrea, exposed, only looks at him in silence. Waiting.

The Warrior pushes him harder against the wall, enough that surely it hurts, and says with a quieter venom, “You think I bluff, Ascian?”

Lahabrea doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move at all.

_So at last you know what it feels like, eikon-slayer._

It would be terribly easy, like this, to hurl him to the floor. He could beat him. He could kick him breathless and bloody and none would dare intervene. The Warrior of Light, after all, deserves privacy.

But Ascians are more powerful than this. What he does here is because Lahabrea permits it.

Slowly, despite every urge to the contrary, the Warrior unfurls his grip. Steps back.

Lahabrea’s heels touch the floor. Though he doesn’t drop he does sink momentarily. Staggers, almost doubling over.

When he looks up at the Warrior he is too furious to disguise himself with humor.

“What,” he asks sharply, “is that all?”

With those words, the true situation begins to take shape.

“You’ve been waiting for something like this to happen,” says the Warrior numbly. “You want me to react.”

“And does _that_ matter?” snaps Lahabrea. “The ones you’d strike down are fled. An innocent man died for your sake, because he believed you were something better. We both know that isn’t true.” A pause. Again, that terrible smile crawls into place. “You’ve failed him.”

The blow catches Lahabrea in the side of his face, tears the corner of those chapped, narrow lips. Throws his entire body sideways, making him stumble.

They are, both of them, breathing hard. And to the murmurs of Ishgard, the fire that pops—a soft patter of blood on floorboards is added.

Slowly, with trembling hands, Lahabrea removes his hood. The hair beneath is tangled and unkept.

He straightens. Meets the Warrior’s eye.

“I can do as Nabriales did before me,” he says flatly. “Should you fail to cooperate, I will take those who remain.”

It should have been simple. Whether it is spite or the poor state of his opponent, even this satisfaction has been denied him.

Then it clicks.

Just before he strikes, something akin to a smirk crosses the Warrior’s face.

Palms find the front of Lahabrea’s torso, shoving him hard into the wall once more. Before he can speak again, the Ascian is silenced by a mouth colliding with his own.

Teeth on teeth, a muffled cry. Tang of iron. Claws and fingers scrabbling against pauldrons. Air whistling hard and fast through a sharp nose. Body going rigid at the contact. Rough, dry skin.

It is only gradually, in pieces, that Lahabrea’s breathing slows. As if he knows not what else to do, his own hands come to rest on the Warrior’s shoulders. Neither resisting nor encouraging.

Eyes wide and fixed and blank.

He does not move upon release, empty of words.

The Warrior swipes blood into his mouth with his tongue. Still smirking.

“…why would you do that?” murmurs the Ascian. Not looking at him at all.

The dark knight shifts, victory slipping. Folds his arms.

“Will it serve?”

Lahabrea, sightless, puts a hand on his shoulder. Gently pushes him aside and steps past. Makes his way to the cot's edge. Sits.

Eventually, the Warrior follows. Comes to rest beside him.

No taunts. No jeers.

“Look,” he says at last, and if Lahabrea hears he gives no indication, “I’m tired. It’s been a trying day. I’ve no inclination to… to do whatever it is you’d hoped I would do here. But if you’re willing to put your plans on hold for the moment, I am. You could stay with me tonight.”

The Speaker blinks. Blinks again.

And then slowly, slightly, inclines his head.


	2. Chapter 2

After not very long, he offers to get something to drink. Lahabrea, elbows resting on his knees, vision fixed to the armoire less for interest than need of an anchor, doesn’t respond.

“Oi.” This time, he looks up. “Want me to bring you something?” A frown, slight and marred by injury. The Warrior quickly adds, “Seems like you could use it.”

And, just like that, his attention is lost again.

“Surprise me,” says Lahabrea, resigned beyond inflection.

So he shrugs, and departs, and shuts the door behind him.

He could reach out via linkpearl. He could pass a message through one of the patrons.

Mayhap it is poor judgment, or weariness, or sincere want for truce. Whatever his cause, the Warrior of Light does as he’d said and no more.

***

In truth, part of him expected to find the room empty upon return.

Lahabrea’s mask remains on the floor. Though he does not understand its significance, there is an impression of almost-blasphemy in this position. Crumpled against the wall are his gloves, boots, and capelet. The habit of an Ascian. Their positions, though clustered, are so unkept that the Warrior suspects they were thrown.

His guest remains on the bed, though his position has changed. Resting on his side, knees tucked toward his chest, Lahabrea stays by the foot of the mattress with eyes half-shut.

The Warrior walks, quickly and carefully, to the windowsill. Sets a mug down before seating himself once more. Cradling the other.

Lahabrea offers no greeting. He does not rise, and though his gaze shifts that is the extent of his response.

“Are you hurt?” the Warrior asks, with the same gruff ease he might have used for anyone he deigned help.

No answer.

The cocoa is thicker than what he’d received at Camp Dragonhead. More cream, a trace of vanilla. Probably a difference between fortress provisions and urban luxuries. Still, it’s more alike than not. An appropriate gesture.

He sips in silence for somewhere over a minute before gradually, cautiously, Lahabrea eases himself upright. Holds his hand out in silent request.

The Warrior hands him the second cup. This is taken without thanks, without so much as a glance. Although he doesn’t hesitate, the Ascian cannot entirely hide his wince as heat brushes the split lip.

Green eyes close. For some time the two of them continue like that. Not-speaking, not-touching.

Then, as they come to a finish, Lahabrea responds.

“Yes.”

Replacing both mugs on the sill, his host pauses.

“Sorry?”

Lahabrea stares at his own knees. His expression is less tense than it is empty. “You asked me a question before,” he says. “The answer is yes.”

It takes a moment to understand.

The Warrior exhales softly. Folds his arms. “You want me to have a look?” he asks.

At last, this commands Lahabrea’s focus—mute and bewildered though it is.

Now, it is the hyur’s turn to look away. Hand at the back of his neck, exhaling. “Don’t have to make it weird,” he says. “But you’ll have to take your robes off for me to see if there’s something I can do. Not about to assume.”

More silence. Lahabrea opens his mouth as if to speak, shuts it again. Just flushed. Ducking his head, holding his elbows, in the end he settles on “Why?”

Searches himself.

Adds, after a beat, “As you mentioned so pointedly before, I am immortal. This is nothing I could not remedy later myself.”

And yet, the Warrior notes privately, he remains but a shell.

How much of the fidgeting man before him can truly be laid at Hydaelyn's feet?

“I regret attacking you for the crimes of others,” he says eventually, “and take no pride in being complicit with this particular scheme of yours.”

No response.

The Warrior sighs. “…Truth be told, I know little of you and yours. Just enough to oppose what methods you’d employ. Should you need it now though, I will hear you.”

A laugh this time, soft and bitter. Lahabrea shuts his eyes entirely.

Only after some moments have passed does he say, “That’s a way of putting it.” His brows knit. “What scraps you’ve gleaned regarding my… our, devotion to Zodiark amount to naught at all. You assume it is akin to the zealotry of your beastmen. Of Ishgard. As if He could be exchanged with some other deity and our situation would prove essentially the same.” Lahabrea seems about to continue only to cut himself off, a barely audible _click_ as he swallows his words.

Eventually, haltingly, he persists.

“…doubtless such subjects only serve to test your patience. Moreover… moreover it is beyond me, to explain with any semblance of adequacy as I am now. Even if I’d remained as I…” One hand shifts, clutching his own forehead. Offering support even as Lahabrea folds over himself to reach it.

What he says next comes strained.

“…I was an orator, you know. A good one. Yet even at the peak of my abilities, even then it would have been an exercise in futility to entreat you. Naught I might say would seem so real as what you can see and taste and touch. I’ve…”

An instant passes. Then another. Lahabrea wrestles with his own voice alone in a room with the man he calls enemy.

The Warrior, watching, decides against any comment of his own.

“…They revered me, once,” says Lahabrea. “They elevated me for my speech, my creations, my…”

A hard stop.

He abandons the sentiment.

“Everything that made me worthy in their eyes, I’ve squandered. Every gift I once possessed, everything I brought to bear that I might… that some justice might remain where it is owed.”

A break then. A glance, fast and furtive. Waiting to be challenged.

This time it is the Warrior who shuts his eyes. “I said I’d hear you,” he murmurs. “That hasn’t changed.”

Lahabrea’s breath catches, something heard rather than seen.

He doesn’t continue for a long time.

“We Ascians,” he says at last, low as if being heard might prove shameful, “carry terrible things with us through necessity. And I… I can no longer deny that the weight has taken a toll. As ages pass I wear away every part of myself that once held value. Whatever excuse I make, in practice all it amounts to is burdening the others with my shortcomings. Shortcomings they are right to resent.”

Then, nothing.

Nothing that goes on and on.

“Nabriales made his own decisions,” says Lahabrea in the end, “it’s true. But what tasks he’d adopted were outside his normal sphere. Mine. His end would not have come to pass had I but…”

His throat works, making no sound.

“…I know," he says, voice breaking, "I know this is something I must… I will address it. Make it right. I’ll…”

Nabriales was nothing like Haurchefant. Nabriales was an angry, arrogant lech who strove for none but himself. The Warrior cannot regret slaying him.

And yet, like the elezen, his passing served to preserve another.

That notion, at the least, they have in kind.

The Warrior exhales.

“A moment,” he says softly, placing a hand at the Ascian’s shoulder as he stands. Lahabrea flinches at the contact, slight but clear. Watches as his opponent tugs his own gauntlets off absentmindedly, as he unbuckles the dark breastplate and slips from the mail beneath. Kneels at the satchel containing his supplies and begins rummaging through.

“You really ought remove your robes,” says the hyur, gaze flitting back. His tone has grown more serious, and he watches the Speaker with an expression of careful sincerity. “Truly. In this matter at least, I mean to help. You’ll be no more exposed than I am.”

This time, with great hesitation, Lahabrea complies.

His frame proves lean, defined by contours of bone rather than muscle. Beyond the blow to his face there are older indications of bruising at his forearms, mottled yellow-black on either side. As if he’d been gripped particularly hard there in days past. What can be seen of his back, curled forward as he is, proves interrupted in red as blood pools under skin. Empty of scars, each detail marking him in contrast to the Warrior of Light. His counterpart proves lined in the pale remnants of wounds healed over. Wiry from effort spent wielding a blade massive enough to match his height.

After brief study, the Warrior selects a vial. Roughly the size of a fist, its contents identified through both the ornate container and its hue. Blue, deep and clear.

“Drink this,” he says, passing the potion to Lahabrea. Seating himself once more at his side. “Not much, but it should help you feel more comfortable at least.”

The Ascian doesn’t move.

Medicine in-hand, not so much as tracing the gilded edges with his study. He sees without looking. Then his hold tightens, simultaneously drawing a level of severity to his expression.

It is a while before he says, in scarce more than a whisper, “You know why I came.”

This earns consideration less for the answer than how to express it.

“I do now,” replies the hero, and by comparison his tone is gentle. “You should still drink it.”

No movement. Naught to indicate he’s so much as been understood.

The change comes slowly. Less like a display of emotion than inevitable biology. An act of nature.

Against the tension of his mouth, the unhidden angles of his face, tears trickle forth from Lahabrea’s eyes. They come swift and soundless, doing naught to mitigate the harshness of his features.

The Warrior observes less like a companion than a witness. His attention earns no acknowledgment, and it is only when the stopper begins to tremble that he realizes Lahabrea’s hands are shaking badly.

Without comment, the dark knight places his palms where the other man grips. Steady.

It is only at contact that Lahabrea allows himself to breathe again, inhaling sharply. Numb, he removes one hand, the tremor lending obstacle even to something simple as opening a bottle.

Before he can spill, before he can change his mind, the Ascian brings it to his mouth. Downs the contents. At his arms, across his back, where lips meet glass, Lahabrea’s body slowly begins to mend. It is with the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple that the Warrior hears his foe whimper.

Only when the vial is empty, as it is plucked to find its own place on the windowsill, does the Speaker come to weep in truth.

***

As Hydaelyn’s favorite son moves to hold Zodiark’s most devoted priest, neither finds they can manage reservation in the act.


	3. Chapter 3

It is impossible not to notice Lahabrea’s restraint. His attempts at restraint. What escapes comes in soft, broken staccato. Wholly unlike how he laughs. With his arm thus encircled, the Warrior can’t help but feel how the composure Lahabrea strives for slips through his fingers like rain. 

“Breathe,” insists the dark knight quietly. What his companion wrests with wracks him chest to fingertips. “Breathe. I’ll not begrudge you this.”

It feels as though he grips a shattered thing that will fall apart upon release.

Lahabrea can only sustain this for so long. He stops in increments, interrupted by the occasional catch to his lungs or shudder.

When the worst has subsided, he only mumbles, “My thanks.” Wipes his face on his arm without removing himself. His head hangs heavy, features partially obscured by hair.

“Don’t think on it,” says the Warrior, with the same ease he’d lend favor to a friend. After some study, he adds, “You don’t look so bad as you did.”

Lahabrea, red-eyed, turns to fix him with an expression that proves simultaneously exhausted and withering.

The Warrior smiles like a trick of the light, not-quite apologetic. He dodges the thinner man’s scrutiny and says, almost flippant, “…I’ve been told that I give a good massage, you know.”

“What.” 

It should be a question. 

It doesn’t sound like a question.

“You heard me,” says Eorzea’s champion. “Interested?”

Wide eyes. Mouth just parted.

“How— nevermind,” says the immortal. Too shocked for aught else. “But why would you…?”

The Warrior finds he cannot guess from whence Lahabrea’s disbelief stems. It might be that his adversary makes the offer. It might be that the offer is made to him.

Therefore, he considers his answer with care.

“When I was miserable,” says the Warrior at last, “there was someon… the man who died. He did what he could to help me find my footing. I don’t know what I’d have done otherwise.” A shrug, like his joints are loosely attached. “Seems like you’re pretty miserable too.”

Lahabrea looks down.

After some time, he murmurs, “I have no desire to be the object of your pity.” This statement comes with neither anger nor indignation. “Not when you’ve never… I am well aware you’ve never cared for me.”

_Whatever excuse I make, in practice all it amounts to is burdening the others with my shortcomings. _

_Shortcomings they are right to resent._

A sigh. The Warrior squeezes him lightly. 

“If I still found you so objectionable,” he says quietly, “I’d not offer. Don’t deny me license to change my mind.” 

A beat. 

Another. 

“…in truth, what I grapple with myself is ugly,” the hyur continues, when further response is not forthcoming. “Angry. I’ve come to resent most who seek my aid. Who feel entitled to my obedience. Yet you’ll doubt yourself before the ones you serve.”

A hesitation longer still.

“I… I didn’t expect to admire your loyalty or commitment, but I do. In spite of your path. Though to my eye, we could both perhaps stand to allow ourselves some respite.”

This time his comments earn a snort—if a gentle one.

“Better men than you have made the suggestion, Warrior of Light,” Lahabrea informs him. “I’m given to understand it’s a fool’s errand.”

“You chose to stay,” says the midlander, lips quirking. “Might as well take your ease.”

And then, somehow, Lahabrea smiles back. A slight, frail thing that nonetheless reads true. “Don’t deny me license to change my mind,” he echoes, making no move to depart.

The Warrior leans in. Presses a second kiss to the Ascian’s brow. 

Lingers.

Lahabrea’s eyes shut.

“For what it’s worth,” says the hero, “I mean this.”

There is no answer, but the Speaker exhales as he leans his head toward the contact. Lets his shoulders fall. 

Seemingly content to remain exactly where he is.

***

“…Do you get offers of this sort often?”

Lahabrea’s mouth pulls taut. 

“No,” he says after some moments, “Not I.”

The Warrior, looking upon the subtle ridges of his spine, the rise and dip of ribs under skin, considers how his usual robes keep these things from sight and imagination.

He wonders how long it's been since anyone bothered to touch him directly without violence. Without having it explained, he finds he understands perfectly.

“I… I know what must be done,” Lahabrea continues. “Distractions make our mission harder. I’ve… I’ve seen time and again what it does to the others, but even they…”

Despite this, when the Warrior nudges him to spread himself over the bed he does so without protest.


	4. Chapter 4

In past entreaties, there were oils and lotions and constant directions. As though being Eorzea’s savior qualified one to be a professional masseuse.

Not so, this time.

Offered freely to a man not in the habit of seeking attendance from passersby, the Warrior has naught to grant but his hands. They are admittedly callused from use, but in the moment also clean, and firm, and not unpracticed.

Lahabrea starts slightly when pressure is introduced. His rigidity is inconstant in a way that suggests he’s conscious of it and knows no way out. The Warrior doesn’t comment on this. Nor does he respond with greater force.

Instead he keeps his focus on one area at a time, sets to silently revealing his movements. A constant touch that lets the Ascian follow him slowly. No attempts at deception, nothing to exploit the vulnerability he’s been presented with. Simply providing an opportunity to relearn contact without pain.

He shifts his thumb back and forth, teases carefully at the base of Lahabrea’s neck. The Warrior finds him warm and smooth, feels rather than sees his nerves begin to abate. When Lahabrea exhales it is a hushed sound. If he notes this approach he gives no indication.

“It might surprise even you,” says the Warrior at last, filling the silence, “to know that the past times I’ve done this were by demand.” Gradually, gingerly, he sets about pressing harder. No immediate response. “A look about me, maybe. Always the strangers who seem to think I’d be right for it.” 

A smirk, largely for his own benefit. It fades. 

“…Beyond that though, people’ve been afraid to touch me for a while. Even my friends. Hold on.” He focuses his attention on a particularly stiff muscle. The air leaves Lahabrea’s lungs in a rush, which he sets to replacing in a sharp collection of gasps. These are small, carefully spaced to give an impression of regularity where none exists. 

“Alright there?” the Warrior asks, leaning in. This earns only a nod, face down. Arms framing on either side.

So he continues.

“I’ve been noticing in pieces.” Heel of the hand. Slow, deliberate circles. “After the banquet, Tataru—Scion secretary, though come to think you’ll have met her—couldn’t keep herself from Alphinaud. He took it hard, we were all worried… didn’t realize ’til later none of them so much as asked me. Then I couldn’t help but see it everywhere.” 

Low to high. In to out to in again.

He can almost taste the hearth smoke. 

“Even subtle things like a touch on the shoulder, fingers brushed in passing… it almost seemed like they went out of their way. And it wasn’t just them, either.” 

Memories of blood on his tongue, blood on his armor.

The white sclera of a merchant in horror.

A bitter smile.

“Been starting to wonder if it’s my fault. They’re not bad, none of them… but to be honest you’ve probably felt me more in fights than the rest put together.”

Lahabrea barely manages to start his reply before swallowing it back again. The result is unintelligible. 

Breathing harder, now.

The Warrior waits, tracing a vertebra with his nail.

“As with…” he manages eventually, almost hoarse, “…with my case, as well.”

A moment passes. A sigh.

“That so?”

Moved by an impulse resembling affection, the dark knight trails a finger from the base of Lahabrea’s neck down his spine. Dips into the small of his back.

_Khhhhck_

The Ascian twitches, shoves his face into the mattress. Finds purchase in the blanket with both hands and twists.

Holding his breath, his voice. Holding in sound. Betrayed by his own racing pulse.

This time when the Warrior smiles, it carries warmth.

He bends. Finds Lahabrea’s shoulder blade and kisses him there. Lingers. 

Hears himself rewarded with a faint, muffled moan.

Pauses.

Shifts lower, halfway down the Ascian’s torso, and tries again.

“If you mean to do something,” says Lahabrea harshly, strained, “just…”

The Warrior hums, as though in contemplation. 

“…Well. If you insist.”

Toes lazily out of his boots. Climbs into bed, straddling the man before him at the ass. Leans forward in one fluid motion, too soon for Lahabrea to do more than sputter wordlessly, and takes each wrist in hand. Pins them in place with his weight.

There is something strangely innocent, thinks the Warrior as he steals another kiss (crook of the neck, he could sink his teeth in here if he felt like it), to find such a reaction when neither of them has so much as mentioned breeches. Without seeing his target’s expressions he travels according to sound and motion and vital signs chasing his will.

Heat finding heat, his mouth follows the crest of Lahabrea’s shoulder. Draws back and down, down against hitching respiration against unvoiced pleas against the way he arches closer fists clenched and trembling pleads desperately as he knows how without language. 

When it comes, the Warrior does not misunderstand the confused stutter of hips beneath him or the way his breath catches as it happens.

Whatever form an Ascian might take or lack ordinarily, in a vessel Lahabrea appears subject to the same whims of physicality anyone might suffer. The Warrior, lips curving against him, wonders if he’s already hard or just starting.

Skating teeth experimentally, the Weapon of Light adjusts himself. Begins to grind, forcing Lahabrea’s pelvis down. Sucks hard. There is a loud, broken sound as the man jerks, knuckles going white. Repeated when his adversary’s calves weave under ankles dragging his tongue to what can be reached of a throat working ragged stiffening in each shift a grip growing tighter forcing wrists flat to emphasize pleasure for them both.

Aether lashes into the Warrior without warning, hot and scrambling graceless against his own. Impossibly dry and dark, a fire inverted to writhe without cease. This nonetheless hooks him, holds fast like an animal like a thing alive. More vast than he thought any life could be.

Lahabrea _whines_, his aether clawing frantic to find purchase to pour liquid night inside. Hydaelyn’s champion clenches his teeth, steels himself to prevent further entry. A cork to seal a river. 

He’d thought himself immune to possession. He’d thought himself immune to the very attempt. This thought immediately followed by another _no not what this is only—_

A foreign idea.

Lahabrea’s.


	5. Chapter 5

For a moment the Warrior is still. Observing. Searching for stability against the inferno roaring through his head.

External, he holds his quarry pinned even now. Lahabrea lies interrupted by spasms beyond his ability to control. Sometimes he inhales a little deeper, as if intending to speak. He has yet to follow through.

Internal, what the Warrior finds comes not in not a single conscious stream but many. A collection of shadows flickering without light.

At the forefront, what is not spoken aloud. Information shared bereft of choice. Too fast, barely coherent as Lahabrea’s aether threads his own. Past arousal a black, gnawing shame that threatens to strip all else away. Not an apology but a regret, concentrated and searing. Taking too many directions to follow. From its shape the Warrior gathers that Lahabrea wants to withdraw in the same way a man heaving himself sick wants to do anything else. Such experience, he recognizes intuitively, makes it impossible for him to overpower anyone.

“…What is this, then?”

Speaking the question aloud brings no small relief—more affirmation that his voice remains his own. Lahabrea seems to shrink beneath him in response, aether turning frenetic. Plummets to the Warrior’s stomach, granting nausea and suffocation in equal measure.

The Warrior moves in, chest brushing the slighter man’s back. His own aether (ember at the heart of the abyss, pulsing red and deep and insistent) branches like veins to stay the trespasser.

“Calm down,” he whispers, forcing himself to breathe. It sounds more assured than he feels. After a pause, he shifts his grip to layer one hand over the Ascian’s. Laces their fingers. “I mean it. There’s no danger from me.”

Nothing.

Then, a hard exhale. Tremulous.

The Warrior finds his vantage.

Through aether Lahabrea clings to him the way a drowning man shoves his rescuer underwater to breathe. Less destructive perhaps, but like instinct.

“Since you’re here anyway, how about you show me why.”

He is presented with impressions of a horse, gaunt and fetid and decayed. Spreading ruin wheresoever it goes. Occasionally it sloughs off portions of its own flesh, which collect flies and blacken any land that surrounds. On its back rests a world, and alongside it does the herd struggle under their own burdens. But even beasts of such endurance have limits. Theirs are reached. When the rotten steed lags, its companions cannot afford to falter. Cannot turn. Without its ability to bear loads, this aberration has no place. Falling is inevitable.

Yet a heart still beats and lungs yet swell.

The Ascian shivers in his grasp, but does not attempt escape.

Here, something festers. Something bleeds. An old wound exacerbated over time.

Fevered, coated in a film of self-disgust, the core of Lahabrea convulses.

_Don’t…_

_Don’t leave me like this…_

Wanted as he is, Eorzea’s hero shuts his eyes. Tilts to find the Speaker’s cheek with his own.

“Enough,” he says quietly. “I’ve no desire to see you abuse yourself. Only explain this.”

There is a long pause. Eventually, Lahabrea seems to find his voice.

“Among… Among my kind,” he says thickly, barely audible, “to connect thus is an inherent part of… it’s the way we embrace one another. I haven’t…”

Something barren, something empty. In the same way that Lahabrea has removed himself from touch, this too remains beyond him.

The Warrior sighs. His expression softens.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “With me then.”

***

They each burn differently. 

Forged red, sparks from a hammer, something that should have been unmovable transformed by temperature. Like magma, like cinders, like a mirage. The Eikon-Slayer radiates inward in waves. 

Lahabrea is not like this. 

A vacuum flaring through space, frenzied and desperate to consume. Exposed, feral, forever moving. He is a distortion of saline and smoke rippling through the air. Only with vague direction at first, darting across the nexus that is his rival. 

This shifts as he is explored in-turn, twining where the Warrior comes to meet him. Having reclaimed most of his reserve, Lahabrea nonetheless can’t prevent a muffled grunt as he is forced into the mattress.

The Warrior has slowed his pace this time, hard and teasing. With his own thoughts yet unguarded he finds himself planning ahead.

He wonders what it will take to make the Ascian sweat. Make him shout. How he’ll move against him once he’s been stripped entirely, a mortal’s hand gliding over his cock. He wonders if he slips into his own language when he comes. He wonders if he'll beg.

Lahabrea, subjected to these speculations, chokes. Mouth slack, breath torn from his lungs. The Warrior feels across quickened flame how he’s drawn blood to the Ascian’s face. His groin. Throbbing heat, insistent.

Lahabrea moves rough and stilted against the bed, yet clutching the blanket as if it has any means to steady him.

“You… you won’t,” manages the Speaker, and there is a shrill quality to his words that eradicates any hint of challenge. Instead, his declaration is almost a question. Doubt brought to hysteria by desire.

_I don’t understand._

The Warrior smiles, object of open need at last. Finds an unmarked space at Lahabrea’s neck and _bites_.

A cry cut short. Muscles straining between his jaws.

When a foreign set of lips finds his clavicle, Hydaelyn’s sword holds his place and offers no release.


	6. Chapter 6

Teeth and tongue. Lingering, wet, disembodied. Another finds his hip. Another his thigh, slipping beneath what clothes remain.

And another.

And another.

Warm, human, seeking. The Warrior tightens his hold, uses the moan crawling from his own chest as incentive. Barred by naught but fabric, driving close as he can manage. Lahabrea makes a strangled sound, his gasp crushed empty. A new mouth finds the dark knight’s ear in response.

These are parts of him no one dares touch, no one dares acknowledge. Slick now, attended with something like reverence. Supplication.

He resolves to fuck the Ascian _senseless_ for this, presses his intent deep into Lahabrea’s aether. He is going to steal all his fancy words away. Make him squirm.

“I… I…” Tight, airless, like a plucked string. The Warrior feels Lahabrea’s voice reverberate against the roof of his mouth.

The feeling is difficult to describe. Cracked ice. A fraying rope. Such is Lahabrea's response, fumbling and disoriented as it is.

The Warrior lets go.

Lahabrea inhales sharply, spectral attentions fading one by one. Seemingly unable to catch his breath, to slow his pulse. 

To focus.

This time, the hyur removes himself. Finds the edge of the bed and sets, with a curse, to removing his breeches.

“Can’t deny you got me with that,” he groans, freeing his erection. Glances back. “Still alright over there?”

No reply. The Speaker’s arms buckle as he pulls himself to a kneeling position. Doubled over himself, almost fetal.

Then a winded, stuttering sound barely recognizable as laughter.

“Lahabrea…?” says the Warrior, and after a moment’s consideration prods him in the ribs lightly.

“Such,” the Ascian wheezes, “such _formality_…” Another, somewhat steadier chuckle.

Stripped and not slightly puzzled, Hydaelyn’s champion rolls his eyes.

Catches himself grinning in-turn.

“Come on, then,” he says, helping the immortal upright. Lahabrea, meticulously unfolding his legs beneath him, nonetheless seems unable to silence himself.

His face more flushed than expected. Almost dizzy.

“Hey,” the Warrior says, cupping his jaw, “are you—“

Abruptly, with more force than anticipated, fingers knit at the base of his skull. Drag him into a kiss that is almost a collision, deep and uncoordinated and relentless. Sliding over his teeth to trace the grooves of him, as if trying to commit everything to memory. Bare chin against stubble. Lahabrea nips the Warrior’s bottom lip as he withdraws.

_I **will** have my revenge._

The Ascian’s thought is almost giddy, disjointed. Both more familiar and less. Green eyes fixed to red, his abused mouth just parted and curling. A reminder that he hasn’t forgotten who initiated this. 

The Warrior, for his part, can’t help but arch his brows in response.

“You will not,” he says, nearly laughing in surprise himself, and snares him again.

A muffled _mmph_ as the Warrior makes contact, invades hot and uncompromising. Finds Lahabrea's waistband without looking and tugs it low, barely clearing his length before taking it firmly in hand. Slowly makes his way back and forth.

Lahabrea attempts vainly to fill his lungs, tightens his grip on the Warrior’s scalp even as the other arm flails behind him. Searching for support.

With what hand remains, Eorzea's hero comes to press back and forth over his Adam’s apple. Feels Lahabrea jerk, jaw slackening as he struggles to keep up. Struggles to press for more contact despite a steady pace.

When the Warrior gently, tentatively, constricts his hold the Ascian’s eyes slide back. Flutter shut. His breath comes harsh and fast. It strikes the Warrior, then, that in all likelihood Lahabrea hasn’t so much as touched himself for some time.

“M… Moment,” rasps the Speaker, snatched from a brief gap between them.

This time, the Warrior releases him. 

Draws him back at the apparent risk of tipping over.

Therefore, Lahabrea instead finds himself supported by the Warrior of Light.

For a moment, his aether almost stills. 

Settles. 

Black lining red less for urgency than comfort.

Leaning hard, face downturned, the Ascian shakily brings arms to encircle the enemy who does not detest him.

Then, after only slight hesitation, the Warrior exhales.

Holds him in turn.


	7. Chapter 7

Elbow folded to hook over one shoulder. An unexpectedly delicate ribcage. Rhythmic expansion and contraction betraying a body no less alive than his own.

“You needn’t have been so generous with me,” says Lahabrea hoarsely, when at last he is able to speak. “There was no cause… but nonetheless. I would return the favor.”

The Warrior closes his eyes. 

“You owe nothing,” he murmurs. “I’m glad to do this.”

A pause.

Lahabrea’s grip closes slightly. His silence fills the room.

“Look on me a moment,” says the Warrior.

Though not without kindness he thinks, initially, that he’ll be ignored. 

When the Ascian complies it is in pieces. His attention comes as a weighted, fleeting thing.

Eorzea’s champion clasps the exposed face on both sides. Meets his eyes.

“Do not assume,” he says, “that I am yet through with you.” 

The Warrior presses his lips once more to the Speaker’s brow. 

Lingers.

“I meant what I said before,” he continues. “I’ve no desire to see you abuse yourself… be it directly or through me. I’ll accept what you offer so long as that is not the price.”

A shiver. 

An exhale.

“It is my will, to give this,” Lahabrea replies. Almost a whisper. “Time is short.”

Neither of them says anything more at first.

Then, tentatively, the Warrior smiles. 

“…Well in that case. Suppose it can’t hurt to let you know you’re not half-bad with your tongue, orator.”

***

On his knees, on the floor. All clothing shed.

The Warrior sits before him with parted legs. Leaning back on both hands. He can’t help but glance again at the mask.

It feels no less wrong now, discarded. A kind of violence worse than sacrilege. Sin against the self.

“Look on me a moment,” echoes Lahabrea softly.

The Warrior meets his eyes and is relieved to find warmth there.

It is not without weariness or grief, but nor is it bereft of humor.

A sincere smile. 

“It’s been some few thousand years,” says the Ascian dryly, “but I wouldn’t have you think me a complete novice. Worry not on my behalf.”

“One of us has to,” replies the Warrior, though he smiles in turn. “You’re sure?”

A snort. Lahabrea maintains eye contact as he leans in. Envelops his adversary and smoothly, unabashedly begins to suck.

***

Head to the roof of the mouth. Hot wet sliding under tracing flesh small quick motions in repetition igniting the rest of him like a match. Rippling upwards in waves.

Green irises locked to his own. Feather-light sensation of breath on what skin wants for contact. The Warrior, in a sharp and graceless gesture, twists his fingers through Lahabrea’s hair. Thick, coarse, unmistakably male. Tugs him in, earning a faint catch as the Ascian fumbles.

Reproach, questioning rather than nervous. The hero meets this with a smirk and maintains tension as he plunges swiftly, deliberately into Lahabrea’s aether with his own.

***

Shadow layered upon shadow. Dark upon dark. He thinks at first it may be endless. Devoid of color. Constant only in how it moves.

Then, something crystaline. Something splintered. Firm as bone, set but not mended.

Lahabrea makes a sharp, thin sound—splays a hand on the Warrior’s thigh and grips.

This, he will avoid.

The aether is less inscrutable nearby. Here, it is possible to make out purples so deep and rich they can only be found in passing. The sky just before nightfall. A flower that will wither. Flighted creatures doomed to die.

There was a hole, not so very long ago. A wound.

Now, the light left behind reveals traces of who Lahabrea might have been had his god not stained him so completely.

Carefully, the Warrior reaches out

_never wanted them to fear him senior member as he was when children caught sight peering past skirts of their elders he smiled waved answered questions however long it took remember always what newness felt like_

collects what he can cradled covered as if failure might see it snuffed out completely

_he’d been animated even then gesturing with his hands dwarfed by the room he addressed grinning unrehearsed ideas sparking ideas alight with opportunities posed by challenges posed by friends_

draws the color back with him and lets go in a flood against the surface 

_this too is yours_

concentrated between the Ascian’s lips pulling him forward strokes precise before sudden emptiness of pressure as Lahabrea’s sigil flares as his jaw loosens as his eyes go wide and his voice snags like a hook in the throat of a fish

***

The light lasts but a moment before going out.

***

Close but not complete, he could let this continue. Finish in the Speaker’s mouth. Watch him swallow.

The Warrior withdraws without resistance, breath knifing across his teeth. 

Lahabrea, liberated, props himself against a kneecap. Struck dumb, stuck staring as aether scatters to black once more.

A little spit, just below his lip on one side. The Warrior leans forward and gently wipes it away.

For a moment, then, Lahabrea looks. And in spite of his body’s reaction there can be no avoiding how the Ascian’s expression falters.

Dims.

_Gone… I need, I…_

The Warrior trails a finger over his chin. Finds purchase.

Tilts up.

“Come back, Lahabrea.”

Confusion. Then, something like recognition.

The sound that comes next is beautiful. Not the harsh and twisting speech from the Thousand Maws of Toto-Rak but something akin to a chime.

It feels familiar, or like it should be.

“I haven’t forgotten you.”


	8. Chapter 8

The sound pricks like a needle, intricate and precise as a mathematical equation. Capable of searing or soothing, each syllable measured carefully against the other.

Without being told, the Warrior finds he understands what’s been given.

***

Only Lahabrea’s upper body is on the bed, the Eikon-Slayer entering from behind. One hand closes over his shoulder, steadying. The other circles once more the extent of him.

Lahabrea’s voice breaks at penetration, an indecipherable cry cut short by what shreds of control remain over himself. The Warrior’s hips jerk, stumble into their own rhythm. Drive deeper in a maneuver equal parts selfish and encouraging. 

_Hhhkkk_

Silence. 

Even so, he does not miss how he’s robbed the strength from his opponent’s legs.

Soaking, claustrophobic. The Warrior sets to mimic pressure he encounters in how he grips in turn. Pins Lahabrea in time between each shove, every stroke. 

The immortal spasms, mouth moving empty as though he means to speak.

“Don’t… don’t think,” says the Warrior through gritted teeth, “that what I said was in jest.” Grinning wildly, madly, he finds with his aether the space where Lahabrea remains injured. Scalding now, a pool of violet stirred in place.

Like the tide, like a storm, he drags this back with him.

_Of course he was there for the Sundering of course he was there when his plans came to naught it was he who sacrificed half that half would live then half again for a fourth so of course OF COURSE he witnessed his greatest failure. _

_Nothing left. None of them. And it was his idea his plan his acceptance that spared but three perpetrators to know their folly. _

_Lahabrea begged for them to kill him then. Could have begged endlessly. _

_But this too was more than he deserved._

**Again.**

_He can never atone for this can never return all he’s destroyed (Hydaelyn destroyed, they remind him, Hydaelyn and the traitors who called her) but he can commit himself can spend the rest of his life fixing what is within his power to fix can become useful be an asset rather than deadweight. They all had faith in his appointment and so long as he lives there remains opportunity to prove worthy._

Strings torn from a harp. China crushed between eager hands. Lahabrea’s heart beats in his throat, unfastening from time and place as his aether finds something besides black unending.

The Warrior seeks the underside of Lahabrea’s cock, runs a finger back and forth as he rocks deeper. A light touch, deliberate. 

“I _want_ to hear you,” he says, abrupt against the waning world around them. “I'm… I’m still listening.” 

What follows is neither a sob nor a laugh nor a shout, yet evokes all of these together.

_Hazy, somewhere full and bright and familiar. Peace continuing outside as if they could live forever. As if this would be remembered as nothing more than a setback. A scare. _

_Lahabrea was beginning to understand then, with growing certainty, that they would not survive this unscathed. _

_He worked incessantly, searching for any alternatives he could find. Argued bitterly with his colleagues. With himself._

_Of course one of them found him collapsed in the midst of it all. His rival even then. _

_Of course…_

_Despite everything, despite the choices they would both make, the Fourteenth took him home that night._

Returning Lahabrea’s name involves equal parts eloquence and aether. 

He tries.

The response is swift, and loud, and violent. There are phantom nails, countless impossible fingers dragging across his back. What the Speaker cries is cut off as he comes into his lover’s hand. 

It sounds like broken glass, or crashing keys, or a melody misremembered.

As he finishes in the aftermath, the Warrior finds himself inexplicably tasting blood, and mead, and sickness.

***

The Ascian fades gradually, between what is seen and what is not. His hips still. His head falls. What tension allowed him to continue supporting himself dissolves.

When the Warrior withdraws, sticky and spent, Lahabrea doesn’t get up.

“Hey…” says Eorzea’s exile, kneeling. Placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

A blank, glassy stare meets him.

“Hey!” the Warrior repeats, more urgent this time. Shakes the Ascian gently.

A blink. A smile, if a faint one.

“I said,” breathes Lahabrea, “worry not on my behalf.”

Rather than reassure him, this only gives the Warrior reason to frown.

“I,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind the Speaker’s ear, “don’t quite trust you not to give me cause.”

Lahabrea shuts his eyes. His lashes are damp.

“…I am not beyond tiring, Warrior of Light. You've... you've caused no lasting harm today. I'm glad for your company."

The Warrior studies him. Rubs back and forth across an exposed temple.

"And I, yours."


	9. Chapter 9

There is little opportunity for Lahabrea to climb into bed himself. When the Warrior sets him in a position of relative comfort he doesn’t move. Doesn’t stir. If the gesture meets resignation, or indignity, or gratitude, nothing shows.

“Right. I’ll just… be in the washroom. Get some water while you—“ 

The Warrior stops.

Green irises fix to him. His hand held captive.

Slowly, with more strength than his posture would imply, Lahabrea pulls the Warrior’s palm to his mouth. Kisses him there once, then again. Gaze falling as he works his way to joints, to fingertips. 

Draws him in.

Light’s champion, entranced, slowly takes his place at the Speaker’s side.

***

Collarbone. Pectoral. Nipple. A scar between two ribs where he’d been slow against a Sahagin. One just above the navel, lingering.

Lahabrea places his lips, slowly and methodologically, across the Ascian-killer’s body. Lying astride him, chin over warm muscle. Though he grunts and shifts as the Warrior strums his hip, there is no immediacy to it. Little energy.

“I want you to promise me something,” murmurs the hero. This earns a curious glance, but no comment. “Don’t… don’t run out when this is done. Not while I’m unawares.”

“You assume,” says Lahabrea softly.

“Of course I do,” the Warrior of Light replies. Feathers his companion’s hair. “Only know I won’t permit you to run off without saying goodbye.”

“You won’t permit…” the Ascian mumbles. His lids drift shut once more.

Another kiss. 

When no further response seems forthcoming, the Warrior continues.

“No surprises or loose ends. Naught abandoned… merely set aside.”

At length, Lahabrea exhales.

“I can’t imagine whether you mean this to be more difficult or less… but very well. You have my word.”

***

At some point, aether mingled like a bed of embers, they lose awareness altogether.

***

With his breath coming soft and easy, with one ear pressed flat to the Warrior’s sternum, Lahabrea looks more exhausted asleep than waking. Skin interrupted by love marks rather than blows, posture relieved of tension at last. The strain he places upon himself becomes conspicuous now for its absence. 

Easy to forget he lacks the frailty of mortal men. That as much punishment as he takes there will always be more he can—he must—endure. That his strength far exceeds what form he wears.

Despite this, Lahabrea willingly places himself at the mercy of one who could destroy him.

And the Warrior (possessed of such knowledge as he is) chooses to be gentle.

Mask, pauldrons, robes. These things make the Ascian appear untouchable. Not entirely real or human. Immune to anything so personal as doubt.

Perhaps they truly are alike.

***

If a smile better suits a hero, should it be any surprise that the villain weeps?

***

When he next wakes, Lahabrea is waiting. Aether coiled stubbornly about his own. Position unchanged.

A fingertip brushes the Warrior’s brow, glides to his cheek. His jawline.

“It’s a pity you use your voice so rarely,” says Lahabrea at last.

A peculiar enough greeting that the Warrior blinks. Squints.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

A thumb traces his lips. “Nothing of consequence… not a barb, lest you wonder,” the reply.

Lahabrea pauses at teeth testing skin. 

Exhales. 

Continues. 

“I only wish I had more opportunity to hear you.”

A chuckle then, still dull with sleep. “Respectfully, I’m common as they come,” says the dog of Coerthas. He neither watches nor acknowledges his partner’s gaze when it falls. Experimentally, he continues to tongue the digit at his mouth—feels the Ascian tighten his legs but no more. “And I’ve heard you use the word ‘interesting’ five ways ‘cept the obvious so not like you’re missing anything.” After some hesitation, he adds, “Though… you could always stay, you know.”

A small, forlorn smile gives the answer. 

It is that simple.

***

Even so, they linger.

***

The act of separating their aether is slow. Reluctant. There are instances when each of them tries to hold fast, when it falls to the other to remove himself from touch. Red tugs free of a darkening black, shadows flicker away as if blown. They do this through the mundane process of cleaning themselves. 

The Warrior suspects Lahabrea could use magic to accomplish such ends. Upon being asked, the pretense given is to avoid waste.

In truth, these moments hold a comfort of their own. Sometimes they might just prove enough.

***

Damp, they re-assemble themselves side-by-side. Leather and mail. Gloves and gauntlets. Shoulders close enough to touch.

“This change things for you?” asks the Warrior without looking. He slides a boot into place.

“Not in the way you would have it,” Lahabrea’s reply, tone settling back into distance. His progress is steady. “There may be some relief in knowing you do not despise me.”

“Aye,” says the hyur, “that’s something.” He smiles. “What it’s worth, I’d rather not kill you given the choice.”

Unaware, Lahabrea nonetheless mimics the expression. “In this, we are in agreement. I would prefer not to be killed.”

A snort from the Warrior as he cuffs the Ascian lightly on the arm. Lahabrea grins, brief and sincere. Closes his eyes.

“…I would keep you too, given the option.”

The Warrior leans against him.

Remains there.

Takes his time before finding the mask that rests beside his companion.

Stands.

(Lahabrea had been the one to pick it up. He’d stared at it for some time, not as if it were something precious but a judge before whom he was guilty. His expression barren of protest or denial. It was with such acceptance that he positioned it alongside his things before moving on.)

With respect for what is inevitable, the Warrior returns Lahabrea’s mask to its place.

Neither of them reacts at first, made simultaneously foreign and familiar.

Then claws brush the hero’s cheek.

Bring him close.

The scowl seems a poor fit for what lies beneath.

“It may be that we are both of us removed from our own,” says the Ascian, “but I…”

The Warrior kisses him once more, long and easy. A farewell on their own terms.

“I understand,” he says at last, and there is warmth in his expression. “I’m glad I got to know you.”

And he says his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone for reading, with a particular thanks for the comments, kudos, and bookmarks. I always get worried when I'm trying something new, and your feedback was seriously encouraging throughout. Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> A couple of small research notes:
> 
> \- Fire, like Ascians, casts no shadow... but there is perhaps one exception. If you search black fire on youtube, essentially there's a method where if a sodium lamp is used at the same time while dripping saltwater into the flame it will turn fire black. Saline means something containing salt, so that was how I picked that particular aether detail.
> 
> \- The descriptions associated with true names are heavily based off of two Greek deities. They are philosophically paired in a lot of cases too. I shift what true name I'd use for the WoL depending on which one I'm writing, but technically this one should fit while being consistent with mythology and game lore. If someone guesses in comments I'll confirm there haha but I don't want to ruin in case people want to figure it out.


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